A Painting of the Morning

I got up this morning when the street lights were going off and the mountains were misty like some distant Japanese peaks. The birds sounded exotic as if I were camping and the remnants of last night's rain pattered a drumless beat on the edge of the porch.
It was the alone time I'd craved so much, the peace and promise of the morning broken only by the rumble of the garbage truck and the decadent smell of hot chocolate. Soon it would be too hot and humid but for now...
For now it was my peice of perfection.